


What's in a Name

by WinterSong247



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Family, Family above all, House Martell, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, May/December Relationship, POV Myrcella Baratheon, Princess Myrcella, how Oberyn and Myrcella ended up together, identity crisis, what's in a name
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:27:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24277351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterSong247/pseuds/WinterSong247
Summary: How Oberyn Martell and Myrcella Baratheon ended up together. A companion story to the BADLANDS.
Relationships: Myrcella Baratheon/Oberyn Martell
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30





	What's in a Name

**Author's Note:**

> As some of you fairly remarked, having read BADLANDS, that it was kinda strange that Myrcella and her husband Oberyn were representing the House Martell at the coronation of Jon Targaryen. So I decided to give them a story, hope you like it!  
> Don't forget that reviews are love <3

She doesn’t recognise the woman that’s looking at her from the sleek surface of the reflecting glass nowadays, not really.

Her skin is tanned and the long hair lost it’s golden accent in favour of a sandy one from all the time spent under the bright rays of Dornish sun. Her eyes - two emerald jewels, lit up and distinctive because her skin is darker now. Lips full and pink. And a scar. It faded long ago to a whitish line that stretches from the remains of her ear to the edge of her mouth. She doesn’t think she notices it anymore, she’s sure she doesn’t care anymore.

She remembers how she was brought back to the Water Gardens after that “accident” happened. Remembers Trystane in horror, eyes wide, motionless. Remembers Prince Doran screaming for the healers. Remembers Oberyn sweeping her in his hands and running for the healers wing himself, he didn’t say a word or even mastered a whisper. Remembers Arianne crying by her bed, promising that she’s never meant for that to happened, she only wanted what was best for her.

She has other memories of a bit later when she was let to return to her chambers. She remembers nights vividly. She spent a lot of them by the fountain in the gardens, the further one from the inner entrance of the palace. The stars were her companions and the moon her confidant. Until one night.

_“Can’t sleep?” The unexpected voice asks._

_Myrcella turns from gazing at tranquil water under her fingers and into the dark eyes of the Viper wrapped in his usual golden-orange tunic with embroiled suns of House Martell on the back secured with a matching leather belt. A golden snake necklace hanging on a long chain._

_“Can’t sleep.” She confirms after a moment._

_He is not waiting for invitation (why would he? He is a Prince of Dorne after all), just moves to sit not far from her._

_“I cannot too.” His voice is velvet. And he doesn’t wait for her to answer. She likes that._

_She has to admit that she’s self-aware. She used to be…at least what she’s heard people say or whisper constantly, to her or amongst themselves…the most beautiful young woman in all the Seven Kingdoms getting her golden looks from her Lady Mother though her beauty was believed to be more gentle and soft. She wondered what all of those people would have said now…_

_“Don’t do that.”_

_Myrcella breaths out sharply, getting her mind out of the stupor she’s in._

_“Do what?” She asks calmly and subconsciously wets her drying lips though she knows he can see right through her. She actually sometimes thinks that Oberyn Martell can see through everything._

_“Don’t turn your head so I wouldn’t see your other cheek.” He replies as calmly._

_“It’s strange that you’d rather see the marred part of my face.” She sounds slightly annoyed and wonders if he would think her rude but can’t find it in herself to care._

_“I’d rather you forget about it all the same.”_

_Myrcella just puts her face in her hands and curtains it with a mass of her hair. She’s careful not to touch injured skin for there’re still big amounts of salve on it._

_He waits patiently for her to retain the same position she occupied previously._

_It takes her couple minutes and several deep intakes of breath to do that._

_“It’s not the look. Not the skin that will never recover…” She lets out as his intense eyes penetrate her. “I can’t sleep because it hurts. Like fire…wildfire. I can’t sleep at night….or day. I’m scared that it will hurt for the rest of my life. And that I’ll never be able to sleep…”_

_It’s a long moment before he speaks._

_“There were some wounds that made me delirious, made me weak, physically. Made me question if I would be able to do the things I was used to before. And I stood up no matter how much it took to pull myself up. Because there was no other version of how the events will unfold in my mind. You need to focus on you getting out of this on top. There’s no time to die. There’s pain, you focus your mind on something else and the mind starts to let go of pain in favour of those other things…”_

_“You make it sound rather easy…” Her fingers crush the palms of her hands, spasming and trying to inflict the most pain she can master on her hands to forget about the hurting cheek and ear for a second._

_“Not like that.” His words are still calming and stable as he firmly grips her hands in his._

_She grimaces at the contact. She would have gasped usually, for that is inappropriate from where she comes from, from what she was taught. But she is so exhausted…_

_His grip is like iron and in this double pressure she can’t keep her own hands in a tight spasm as she is forced to relax. Oberyn sensing it lets go himself after several beats of her aching heart._

_“It’s not easy but it is what you will do. You are stronger than you give yourself credit for.”_

_After that he stands up and offers her his hand._

_“I’d rather stay.” She declines, her voice weak from fatigue._

_“No. I will escort you to your chambers and make sure the maid will bring you mulled wine with spices. It will pass you out.”_

_She all but grabs his hand after that. He pulls her up as if she’s nothing but a feather. She’s ready to do anything at this point for some hours…minutes of sleep._

_She really does pass out after several big gulps of a strong drink with equally strong smell that drapes the night around her body and welcomes her in the arms of unconsciousness._

_It’s only when she wakes up the next day and the sun is already at its peak she realises that she’s never asked Oberyn why he wasn’t sleeping that night either. But as her fingers move themselves to clench on her palm, she forcefully unclenches them. He said ‘Not like that’ and now that her mind is clearer after so needed rest she knew he was right._

Trystane…Trys…is still as good to her as he was despite her disfigured cheek. He’s kind and with gentle nature. But she feels different now. Just as she looks different. She feels like she’s a fighter now or at least that’s what she’d like to imagine. Instead of playing cyvasse all day she’d like to learn how to weald a weapon…any weapon really. For she feels if she could survive losing a part of her face, she should make sure she can protect herself so that no-one could take the other half without a fight.

Young Dornish heir isn’t proficient in any kind of weapon, he has no interests in war, combat, taking up arms. But he recognises where she comes from with that idea and understands her. Like he always has, she can swear he’s her best friend. Ever.

Trys suggests she ask his Uncle for help. Who else would be better to land her a hand than the Red Viper of Dorne.

She is not sure.

But she still goes to watch him practice. And she thinks she’s discreet about it. Until the moment he calls her out.

She steps from behind the column as he is finishing one of his routines with the spear. He is fast and graceful and consistent with his moves…and utterly lethal.

_“Well I’ve taught all my daughters.” He says after she shifts from one foot to another enough times to finally ask him if she could learn a thing or two from him for self-defence purposes. “I can teach you if you’re willing.”_

_“I’m not your daughter.” She has no idea why she feels the urge to clarify that._

_“Definitely not.” He looks at her with expression she cannot place so she just opts to make arrangements as to when they will start training._

_In no time she finds herself with a spear in her hand that feels inwardly foreign and rather heavy. And Oberyn Martell, the most dangerous snake of the desert, standing behind her. His leathered chest almost attached to her back, his strong arms around her, her hands in his as he shows her his deadly art, his spear dance._

_She tries not to think about anything else._

She doesn’t catch how time moves forward. It all but fly between her playing cyvasse with Trys, her training with Oberyn, her time with the House Maester, she’s studying herbs now - she’s always loved it, even had a little garden back in Red Keep - and her night walks in the garden. She sleeps fine, she just got used to them. She finds the younger Prince of Dorne joining her often. Maybe he’s got used to them too. They generally meet at the fountain and go from there. She finds herself in Oberyn’s company a lot. She doesn’t mind. Doesn’t mind at all. It’s unexpectedly easy to be in his company. She finds it interesting how he’s so destructive and feral in a fight and so calm and collected when they meet under the stars’ eye. Not to mention that he’s funny. She considers him very funny, she thinks sometimes it’s the goal of his night to make her laugh very loudly and openly forgoing any decent amount of volume. He never looks at her scar, he looks but he doesn’t notice it or that’s what it looks like to her. And then she stops noticing it too.

Myrcella seems to be in some bubble where the news from battlefields rarely reach her even though the war is crowning in the other regions of Westeros.

She doesn’t realise that her wedding to Trystane is in two moons.

_“I…got so comfortable living here that I didn’t realise how much time passed…” She tells him one night when they are lounging near the same fountain. “And in two moons I am to be married.”_

_He takes his time to reply as his onyx eyes search the night sky for something._

_“Are you happy?”_

_She looks questionably at him._

_“You mean here? In Dorne?”_

_“Getting married.” He elaborates. He’s not of many words that night._

_She opens her mouth to answer but closes it again._

_“Trystane is very kind to me. As I’m sure you know. He’s my friend…trust me, where political marriage in concerned, I could have done muuuuuch worse.” She drags the ‘much’ on purpose to communicate the point across. She knows some noble ladies are given to old men (meaning in their 60-70ths) or ugly men, or dangerous ones all to secure an alliance. She knows she’s in luck with Trystane, and she never took him for granted. Yes, they are not in love, but he’s her best friend and she cherishes it._

_He huffs and gives her another one of his looks she never knows how to interpret._

_“You should have a choice.” Is all he says as he stands up, offers her a hand and as she takes it it’s clear that the conversation on her impending nuptials to his nephew is over._

She’s very surprised and **_hurt?_** when she hears the servants gossip that he has ended things with Ellaria Sand, his long time paramour and a mother of at least half of his children. Mostly because she doesn’t understand why she has to scoop it from the palace gossip and not from him. She believes them to be friends. Unlikely ones but still friends. For Gods’ sakes, she spends the most of her time with him by that point than with anybody else. And she’s angry with him and has no idea why the fact that he hasn’t told her that he’d broken up with his paramour ignite such reaction from her.

But she’s not that little voiceless girl anymore, and he contributed to this most of all. So she wraps herself in leather, arranges her hair in a high tail to open her face and let her scar shine like a badge of honor. That’s what he taught her. That’s how she finds herself on a practice field with him.

_Her punch feels heavier, her anger fuelling her from within. Anger seems to make her faster. And truthfully more eager to simply inflict pain on him._

_“What is it with you today?” He asks finally when she claims -again- that it was on pure accident that she kicked his shin again._

_“Nothing, I said Forgive me. What else do you want?” She snaps back._

_“Fine, don’t tell me.” He huffs and adds in a half-voice. “Be like the snake that you’re apparently turning into.”_

_“Well it’s not like we’re telling things to each other, right?” She hisses._

_“What is that supposed to mean?” He asks sharply as he catches her by the elbow when she is all high on that anger she feels inside and she’s so adamant to leave._

_“I thought we trusted each other.” She tries to wiggle out of his grip but he wouldn’t let her._

_“Myrcella…?”_

_“Fine! Why wouldn’t you tell me about Ellaria?”_

_Oberyn sighs deeply at that but still doesn’t loosen grip on her hand._

_“I don’t see how that concerns you…”_

_He seems to realise that it wasn’t a right worded sentence at the way her green eyes start to burn._

_“Why does it make you so enraged?”_

_And she’s stuck. She’s not sure what to answer. She’s not sure why exactly it hit such a nerve in her._

_“Friends talk about those things. And support each other.” She decides to stick to what she’s announced before as she tries to push him with all her might to finally leave the practice area. “And not find out about important events in each other’s lives from a palace gossip. Because apparently my eyebrows couldn’t rise any higher, at least that’s what the seamstress thinks now.”_

_By that point he has enough as he grabs her and forcefully slams her delicate form to his chest making sure to get a breathless noise out of her. Resistance is entirely futile so she just stops. Stops all her movements, breathing heavy. One of his hands ends up across her chest in a tight grip of her hand, his breathing as heavy in her ear, his head bent to hers, his other hand cupping her face to hold it in place._

_“You are marring my nephew in less than a moon. It should not bother you wether I break up with_ **_anyone_ ** _or not, do you understand?” His words heavy, every single one hit like his spear. And true. All his words true. It shouldn’t bother her. Not to that degree at least._

_She relaxes in his arms, shoulders losing the stone tension from before, head lols back hitting the place in the crook of his heck , under his chin. Anger ships in some for of despair mainly she doesn’t understand that anger. She’s not an angry person at all…or she used to be._

_“You’re right.” It’s the only think she can say. And she doesn’t lie, never lies to him.“Forgive me…”_

_She holds onto his arm on her chest. “Forgive me…”_

_She doesn’t know what’s wrong with her. She’s holding on his hand as if her life depends on it. She feels the betraying tears are about to break through but she doesn’t see the point to them so she holds them back._

_He doesn’t let go. Why, she has no idea as well, but she’s grateful for it._

_“Forgive me…” She keeps whispering._

_He just holds her tighter._

It happens so fast…like the wind.

They all are at the feast. The wedding is in two days. Her gown is finished and ready, hanging in the dressing chamber which is next to her bed chamber.

Nobody from the King’s Landing is set to attend. She’s not surprised neither is she waiting. Though she’d like to see one of her Uncles. Jaime or Tyrion. She’s always felt close to them. But she knows it’s war time. Her wishes seem so childish in comparison.

_Everyone present is heavy on Dornish wine. And all in all she believes everyone is merry._

_She’s talking to her betrothed when it happens._

_She sees Oberyn from the corner of her eye. He’s in beautiful golden-orange and he’s the Sun. He is the Sun and the Spear, and the spirit of this Kingdom._

_Then she hears it. She hears it before she even sees anything. She hears the glass breaking. Then she sees Oberyn start running in their direction while all others seem to run from them or just stat falling to the floor. She’s ashamed to admit that because she was watching his uncle she didn’t realise that a sharp arrow landed right in the middle of Trystane’s chest._

_His eyes glaze over and he starts falling backwards. She instinctively grabs at his hands but he’s too heavy. Then she feels sharp pain in her left arm but she’s only left to wonder what it is because next thing she knows she’s on the floor, her back on cold marble, her hair sprawled behind her head and she’s covered with Oberyn’s body. There’s no part of her that is not touching him. She keeps hearing screams because arrows…they keep flying. He looks down at her but doesn’t attempt to say anything, making sure she’s fully covered with his body. She just closes her eyes with her head into his shoulder and lets a single tear roll down._

_She doesn’t know when it ends. But as soon as the wall of arrows is gone he’s up and she’s up with him like his puppet. He shouts for the guards. Her silk gown is covered with wine and blood. He orders two of the guards to take her to her chambers and be with her until he returns or he would “behead them himself”. Then he turns to her and orders her to_ **_go_ ** _, his eyes dark and meaning that there be be no negotiations. She goes. She wants to stay with him, and with Trys. But she goes._

She doesn’t remember how she got to her chambers. She was sure she was in a state of a Wildling when the doors were closed behind her. Her light gowns the colour of swelling peach were still covered with Trystane’s blood and the Dornish wine he was holding when the arrow pierced his heart. She’s just numb. She sits near her luxurious bed on the cold marble. Because the floor is icy and that she still feels it under her body, under her fingertips, and that is the only thing reminding her that she’s still alive. She sits there for some time when Oberyn finds her in that state. He doesn’t get her to stand up like he usually would. She regrets they don’t have fireplaces in the South because she’s got that dread in her bones….and she realises she’s shaking, feels his hand on her shoulder as her head descends on his own shoulder. She wants to cry but her body is so tense and deadly tired.

Her maids are the ones that bring her news that Princess Arianne was found dead in her room that same night, apparently shot with an arrow, and she remembers that her future good sister had retired early from the feast. That obviously is was a grange staked long ago by a group of sellswards who called themselves The Black Lotus. And that Oberyn Martell is gone, chasing after them.

She goes to Prince Doran. Her hand is bandaged where the arrow grasped her, the wound hisses but Myrcella doesn’t seem to pay it much heed. Because the grief is so much stronger than any physical pain. It’s in the air. It’s biting and crisp. He himself doesn’t feel well, nor does he feel right. It’s wrong for a parent to outlive his child…children. He tells her so. She doesn’t know how to comfort him, doesn’t have an experience in that area.So she opts to just sit with him watching the Water Gardens. After all she’s just lost her friend and her intended, and her future good sister. She’s just lost a family for those people have become her family. So she can be allowed to be struck with the grief as well. Doran seem to understand that. They just sit and watch. He wants to be closer to his son through her. She wishes to be with her friend again. Through the spirit of his father but she’s not sure how much spirit is left in him…

She’s sure there’s a point when she believes he’s abandoned Dorne. That he’s gone to Essos or wherever else. The funeral days are over and he never even showed his nose near the palace walls. Those are dark lonely days. She retains the state of quietness, the state of tranquility. But if the first one works for her perfectly, it’s the tranquility she has a problem with. Her mind is never at peace.

A moon. A hole moon passes. Not like she’s counting. One evening he just shows up in her chambers disheveled, his clothes in stains that holds a story of his hard journey in itself.

_He doesn’t look so Unbowed. Unbent. Unbroken. at the moment._

_She’s not sure if he’s told anyone of his return or just came to her champers first._

_She knows him for almost four years and nothing…nothing ever brought him into a state like this. Whatever happened when he was away, shook him._

_A second after they stare into each other he breaks…and falls to his knees and grabs her in an embrace. So different that what he’s let himself before. His head on her belly as he starts to shake. She has no idea how many people he’s had to kill, to cut out, because that’s what he did, she knows. The people that killed his innocent niece and nephew, his family…their family._

_She holds his head and then she says, clear and strong:_

_“You are not at fault for this.”_

_Nobody told her but she figured out that sellswards had something to do with his travelling and the work he’s done with Second Sons._

_She doesn’t want to know, it will not change her opinion of him. For her he’s still the Sun, and he will always be._

_“Look at me. People choose to kill, no one and nothing can make them. If they choose to kill, we choose to react.”_

_He looks up at her as if he doesn’t expect her to be so understanding, so rational. As if he almost doesn’t expect her to forgive him so easily. For what? She’s not held him guilty of any charges. But she still has to repeat it for him so he would believe her._

__

She’s not sure where she stands.

Here, in Sunspear, she feels at home. Here, where the equality prevails between those beautiful dark-skinned black-haired people. Where she spent last three or soyears of her life. Kings succeeded Kings. She got news of her older brother’s death and of her younger brother becoming the Protector of the realm. The news of the Young Wolf being murdered in the Red Wedding. She hasn’t shed a tear for Joffrey but Robb’s death somehow strikes a chord in her soul. They’ve met only once seems like in another life, she’s heard a rumour that her Lord Father wanted to betroth her to Robb Stark but when all the dust settled it was Sansa and Joffrey.

Three years and a half to be precise…

She doesn’t know where she stands.

She wasn’t born into this House that guests her no matter how she wishes for that. Neither did she enter it by marriage.

Though Prince Doran constantly repeats that she is his ward and he will not send her back to the Capital at least until the War is over, it doesn’t bring her mind any peace. She realises that The Prince has become attached to her and since his children are now gone, he really does view her as his surrogate child. But unfortunately legally he does not have any rights if she’s not set to marry in Dorne any more.

She stops going to the fountain. All those wandering thoughts fly across her mind, Trys and Arianne’s deaths are heavy at the back of her head never really leaving her, and she just lies on the pile of pillows with windows wide open as the lightest breeze caresses her skin….

_He comes in through one of those open windows one night. She doesn’t sleep._

_“Where I thought you were sleeping.” He lets out and his tone is equally amused and annoyed as he unceremoniously deposits himself on the mattress making it dip under his weight. He’s almost to himself now and his antics, of course._

_“And that’s why you came like a creep through the window?”_

_At that he produces a small grin. But his eyes are dark and deep as they always are and the grin doesn’t really reach them. They always hold more. More stories. More emotion. More of everything…_

_“I’ve been waiting in the gardens more than one night.” It is a statement that demands an answer._

_She’s not in the mood. It doesn’t mean she doesn’t want him to be there, she just doesn’t want to talk._

_She parts her lips but no sound escapes so she just keeps her eyes on the ceiling, worring her bottom lip._

_He watches her. She feels it. She understands he will not go, not before she speaks._

_“Your brother will send me back…eventually. He will not have a choice.” She says finally._

_“You’ll stay here.” He replies without a moment’s hesitation._

_She props herself on her elbows, her silky nightgown hugging her breast, revealing. Three years ago she would be dead of shame, now…she’s lived in Dorne too long._

_She looks him in the eyes. Those black pools. Questioning… They are inches apart as he bends to be the same eye level with her, with only a moon to light their forms._

_“You belong to House Martell now.” He says._

_“But I’m…” She whispers, lips parted._

_“You belong here.” His hand raises to her cheek and his fingertips ghost on its’ surface. All this time she watches him with her emerald eyes ofa hawk as her heart start beating painfully in her rib cage. She wonders if he can hear it because to her it’s as loud as the stories she witnessed as the small kid first brought to her Lord Father ancestral seat in the Storm Lands by her Uncle Renly._

_Their relationship has always been tactile. They practiced together. Dornish people were a priori more loose with touching… but this is different. They are not sparring, he’s not mentoring her now…_

_She doesn’t pull away as his fingers drag slowly down to her throat and her breathing becomes heavy under his touch and she has to breath out through her mouth as she pushes her chin up subconsciously._

_“You belong here. To House Martell.” He repeats and his words are final. They find their home somewhere behind her ribs and spread a warm feeling throughout her whole body._ **_To House Martell…to me._ ** _Is that what he’s saying?…_

_Then his hand is gone, he pulls himself up and is on his way to the window he came in through._

_“Tomorrow be at the fountains.” He throws behind his shoulder and she sprawls back on the pillows, his touch still burning pleasantly on her neck._

The Targaryens are back in the world to her surprise. There’s a Dragon Queen in the East. And what’s more funny: a bastard of Winterfell, a boy she’s seen from the window of her chamber when her family visited North, is actually born Aegan Targaryen, son of Crown Prince Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark. It feels surreal, she can barely believe it.

It happens around the time Tommen’s letter reaches her.

_Dear Sister,_

_Please forgive me for not reaching out soon. Know that no matter what you’re one of the people that always holds my heart._

She knows it, understands. She’s not tried to reach him either, knowing that all her correspondence would probably be read by Mother or Grandfather first.

_The events that prompt me to wright this letter are dire._

_Our Lady Mother has set the Grand Sept to wildfire, killing at least 300 people. My wife’s brothers and High Septon included._

_I’m fearing for my wife’s life for our Mother is using her to get what she wants from me._

_I hope you can forgive me for what I have to do. I hoped I could see you one more time but I know this wish will not be granted._

_I think about you often and hope you know what happiness is for you are deserving of it the most._

_Know that I love you and always remembered you, sister._

_Your brother,_

_Tommen I Baratheon._

__

She bites her lips as she holds the paper to her heart. She can read in between the lines. She knows that her little beloved brother, the King of Seven Kingdoms, is dead by now. And she knows she is his hair.

She doesn’t want it, she hates that throne and that broken crown.

She doesn’t know what is her Mother’s play now. She hasn’t seen her for years and when last she did she’s not sure what kind of person her Lady Mother was.

Oberyn takes the letter from her.

_“You are staying in Dorne.” He simply announces as he crumbles the paper in his hand._

_She resists the urge to roll her eyes._

_“Tommen basically announces that I’m his heir. My Mother is yet to react. I don’t…I don’t know what she can do, her lust for power has always been overwhelming…and now…” She lets out a sigh. “What if she comes for me? What will the people think? I’m nobody to them. You can’t ask them to fight for me if anything happens.”_

_“Would it be better if I ask them to fight for their Princess?” His words are said like any other words he would say to her. Maybe that’s why she doesn’t pay any heed to their meaning at first._

_“What did you say?” She finally asks still in an awe._

_Truthfully she doesn’t comprehend yet fully. She is scared to assume anything. She just needs to hear straight words from him, not only hints._

_“Will you stay here forever?” He asks as if it is the most common thing in the world, like he asks things like this of her every day. “Will you belong to House Martell?”_

_…say it._

_“To me?”_

_His hand creeps to take hers. She still cannot believe it._

_All those years… She thought is was all in her head. Every word, every touch, every gaze…_

_“But how…” She starts but he pulls her closer and interrupts._

_“Will you?”_

_She mummers a breathless Yes. He kisses her then._

_And suddenly she’s undone._

_She’s hot from the inside, every single thing in her burning from his lips, from what he’s doing with his tongue inside her mouth. His arms are around her with one hand on her back making sure she’s as close to him as possible, the other is on the nape of her neck. She lets a moan out that in return beats out his own groan._

_When he breaks the kiss - MUCH to her regret and she doesn’t wait to let him know exactly that by a whine noise - he kisses her scarred cheek tenderly, tracing the marked skin. She had no idea this man… this strong man, this gladiator, has so much tenderness, softness in him. She thinks she will die right there from what he inflicts on her…_

_He takes both her cheeks in his hands and whispers:_

_“Don’t you see that every step I’ve taken since the day your skin was marred I’ve taken to be closer to you.”_

_She doesn’t think any more, there are no coherent thoughts in her. Just crushes into him and melts right into him._

_“Oberyn…” She repeats over and over as his embrace closes around her in a steely circle, his head on top of hers, her face burrowed in his chest, her hands clasped securely around his torso._

She’s of Dorne now. Of House Martell. That triumphantly removes her from the possibility of the Iron throne succession.

Prince Doran is the one that gives her away, like true proud Father would. She is in wander that now he would be her good brother. Though he will always be her Father figure, the first man to greet her to the desert lands all those years ago. 

But it seems that all the happy moments in her life are cut short as only a moon after the ceremony is hold Doran passes away. He goes peacefully though and for as much she’s greateful. Now all the responsibilities of Prince and Princess of the Kingdom is lying at their door. Neither of them is happy of why they now have to step up and, in all honesty, they would rather enjoy themselves somewhere on Summer Sea Islands or maybe simply sailing through it. But they both love Dorne and the people. And they both know that the time has come. 

_So yes, she doesn’t really recognise the woman in the mirror as she styles her own hair for the coronation. It calms her down._

_As she stands there, in the crowd of nobles, representing Dorne with her husband, they all accept the new Targaryen King, she almost wants to laugh. Jon Snow sits on the Iron Throne with the crown of iron and he looks so out of place, so uncomfortable there that she almost understands him and maybe even sympathises. She guesses she’s not the only one who hates that ugly thing. And he smells of Winter. No matter the name, no matter the circumstances, he is of Eddard Stark’s, son or ward or nephew or whatever he truly was to him._

_She sees her brother’s…or more like brothers’ widow, and uncle Renly’s too… She still wonders how much Margaery must have wanted the Baratheon House name to marry three people claiming it. But the woman, that beautiful woman with long chestnut hair and a body of a mermaid looks extremely miserable and her eyes are dead. And Myrcella wonders if she truly loved Tommen, if she made him happy, if she’s grieving for her husband or just for her brothers…_

_And then she turns her head and catches the eye of a slightly late couple from the Vale with Littlefinger just behind them. Myrcelly grabs Oberyn’s hand a little tighter because for everyone else it may seem that the new wife of a Young Falcon is just a graceful dark-haired beauty with mesmerising Tully eyes, and she’s heard people saying her name is Alayne Stone, a bastard daughter of Petyr Baelish. But as soon a she sees her, Myrcella knows the truth. They haven’t seen each other for years. But this is Sansa Stark before her. King Jon seem to know it too since they share a long dream-like moment just staring at each other. She wants to come up to Alayne, hug her, talk to her but she know that this masquerade is not just for nothing and her friend knows better if she chooses to maintain her alias. Myrcella only hopes that she’s alright…at least as much as possible._

_They are out of the Capital as soon as possible. There’s nothing here for either of them. The Coronation was just a formality to show that there will be no more war…at least for a time being._

Myrcella is very happy and still doesn’t believe her life could take a shape like this. She doesn’t expect more happiness, cannot really ask for it after her and Oberyn got together. She feels her life is complete by his side and as a Princess of Dorne. 

But she still gets it. They get it.

On one fine morning when the kingdom is still asleep she gives birth to a twin boys. Beautiful boys with raven-like hair and bright green eyes. Her first children and his first sons, the heirs to their Kingdom. When her husband finds out it’s a set of boys and is the first one to hold them in his arms, she swears she can see the almighty Prince of Dorne shed a tear.

They decide to name the children after their passed uncles. Thommyn and Doran. And Oberyn makes sure that the one that comes first is named Doran, something about “… _.you’re going to be the first son. Again.” He mutters, he still misses his deceased brother terribly. She just grins, she doesn’t care as long as those children are healthy and happy_. She’s not adamant to carry her own House name legacy, purely naming one of her children for the man she loved dearly, not because he was a Lannister but because he was kind and beautiful and full of love, and if even a little of his character will transfer in a babe in her arms she would be grateful and so very thrilled.

All in all when Myrcella recollects her life she tries to remember the good things, untainted things.

But life is rarely pure. And rarely it is fair.

She had to loose a lot and learn a lot before she got to where she is now.

Myrcella swears she will teach her children to rule honestly, with an amount of their heads and hearts. Their Father will teach them to hold a sward and a spear. She will tell them stories about how Nymeria came to Dorne with the Rhoynar, and about Robert’s Rebellion, and the War of Five Kings. She will not express her vocal opinions (though she can’t speak for her husband) because if she and Oberyn raise them up right, they will one day make good decisions when they will rule. She can only hope. 

**Author's Note:**

> There you go, guys! Sorry there are probably enough typos there to get me through a lifetime but I just needed to get it out.
> 
> Don't forget to leave me a line;)


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